Amitav Ghosh and the wrong Nobel

The writer was in Bangalore recently for the launch of his new book Smoke on the Water, or was it Waves in the Wind, ok, ok, it's River of Smoke, the second in his trilogy of books set in the 19^th century (surely he should move with the times?) where he talks about great human migrations against a backdrop of the opium trade. Shobha De was also in town and had said in a talk the same day that she thought Ghosh would one day win the Nobel. It certainly won't be for Pronunciation. It is not, I repeat not, non-ka-lunce, Mr Ghosh, but, now say it after me, non-sha-lonce.

Oh, dear, it was all nearly as depressing as hearing chef Bobby Chinn lauding some great 'restauranteur' on his TLC show World Cafe Asia.

Loved the questions from the Bangalore audience, though. One young boy asked how Ghosh kept the sense of his characters since his books came so many years apart, another that the real question on everyone's mind was: What was Ghosh's own opium experience?

The author's responses were clever. Writing a trilogy kept his memory strong and was a great strategy against Alzheimer's, he said, and we all have had opiate experiences - from taking cough medicine to coming out of anaesthesia and feeling euphoric.

The clincher though was when a woman said one review of River of Smoke mentioned the use of a lot of terms that she couldn't understand herself, that were incomprehensible and funny, (possibly this: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/8559117/River-of-Smoke-by-Amitav-Ghosh-review.html )Ghosh replied that if she found it funny then it must not have been too incomprehensible. I fear the lady meant funny as in odd, but you can't deny the author's handling was masterly.

Ghosh saying he kept reviews at bay was a tad disingenuous, however. So he's writing for himself? He doesn't need to know what other people think of the books they're paying good money to buy and read? Sorry, we'll only take that from JD Salinger.

Dig this Daisy chain

Marc Jacobs makes some of the ugliest clothes on the planet, (what's with that peacock-shade lame with an oriental twist he's got going recently?) but he knows his fragrances. Daisy is best-selling for a reason, creating a worldwide daisy chain of success, because it evokes sunny days lying on the grass and in the distance seeing the love of your life walking towards you. Daisy is sharp, sweet and memorable, both innocent and worldly. Almost as dreamy as Ed Hardy's Love & Luck with its coconut and lemon zest.

How important is fragrance, really? Let me just say this: While women love their lotions and potions because it makes them feel special, nothing is a bigger turn-on than their men smelling sensational, too. It's like drawing a map that leads a woman straight into bed, all without saying a word. Sex without conversation as a precursor? That's like having all your Christmases coming early.

Footnote: Speaking of Ed Hardy, how cool is this bag that I got for free with the Ed Hardy fragrance.

Ballooning in Cappadocia's alien landscape, Turkey

James Franco v Leo DiCaprio

I used to like James Franco when he was fresh, and not so jaded that he could be self-indulgent to the point of gazing vacantly into the distance as he hosted the Oscars. At least Anne Hathaway appeared passionate and grateful in her ditziness, and she has a much greater body of work than Franco does. But since he's taken up writing, could this explain his sudden arrogance? Is he going the way of Ethan Hawke? Who can say. But it is always unnerving when people you admire falter before the finish line.
Movies, in any case, are back in the limelight after a few desultory years. With True Grit, The Fighter and King's Speech, I am one happy camper.
My mind is on Leo DiCaprio, though - my hero. There is nothing about him I don't like. The fact that he dates supermodels (a bit tongue-in-cheek I've always thought) and doesn't marry; that he shuns award ceremonies but when he does arrive he handles himself with grace; that he, reportedly, fools about on set until the word Action! is spoken and then it's like a curtain has fallen and he is instantly the character he's playing...there is no movie he's ever been in that was not utterly watchable. People admire and respect him and yet he retains his mystique, and year after year there is one amazing movie after another. How does he do it? Maybe we should ask Franco to research the boy wonder and tell us – and learn a thing or two while he's at it.
Of course the reason he doesn't go to award shows is because they often have no integrity. Imagine not giving DiCaprio the Oscar for Aviator? Or not acknowledging him in Catch Me if You Can or Basketball Diaries or Shutter Island or Inception. (And ignoring directors like Scorsese and women directors like Streisand for Decades.)
The Academy for Motion Pictures gang is made up of people whom you have to pucker up to, and if you don't, well, there will be no golden boy for golden boys.

Why Charlie needs to get out more

That's what he blames his current descent into mental disequilibrium on. And I thought to myself, much as I like him (and this is the reason they used to call him Teflon Charlie), I have the solution to his woes. I think his father should hire a private jet to pick him up from his palatial home and take him to Somalia where he should be left in a refugee camp for, oh, 24 hours should just about do it. Pick him up and when he arrives shell-shocked and catatonic back in America, leave him for another 24 hours and he should be ready to take up his extraordinary life once again.
Because that, really, is the secret to life, the answer to Why are we here? What is the purpose of our existence? Does any of it matter? You know, those daft questions white people ask themselves and their gurus in ashrams. The answer is that life is extraordinary. Just look out the window, or consider your day spent lounging in a Parisian cafe, reading a book in the window-seat of your home, working as a graphic novelist, or eating pigeon pie in Marrakesh. Oh, Charlie, you need to get out more. Somalia awaits.

The Empress's New Clothes

If no one else dares to say it, I will - Angelina Jolie can't act. She is a one-role wonder who won an Oscar for playing herself and nothing underscores this better than Lara Croft, The (godhelpus) Changeling and now The Tourist.
Why was Tourist even made? What was the story it had to tell that we have not been told a dozen times already? We knew from the opening scene who Johnny Depp was and we understand why Captain Sparrow could not turn the role down – who can refuse this woman whose fame is bigger than she is? Of course take Mr Pitt out of the picture and it would be halved but that's neither here nor there. The only thing The Tourist did was pay homage to Ms Jolie's admittedly mesmerising beauty. Her face is unsurpassable and her fashion exquisite. From the fur and gold accessories to the cinched-waist ensembles topped with the abundant hair extensions, we could have asked for nothing more – visually. But as when she moaned 'I want my son, I want my son' until we cringed with embarrassment in our seats during The Changeling, watch her move down Europe's hallowed streets as though a mannequin had come to life and you will simply shake your head in wonder. What was the director thinking? No spy would actually hip-sway down public roads with her nose in the air. And when she enters a ball, the world stops and stares as though Liz Taylor, Charlize Theron and Doutzen Kroes never existed.
But there is another reason to watch Tourist and that's Depp's continuing comic genius. Buongiorno, says the Italian receptionist and the foreign languages-impaired American says, Yes, yes, Bonjovi and hurriedly tries to say that men with 'pistoleros' were coming to get him, to which the receptionist replies, Sir, your Spanish is excellent. The Yankee doesn't know the difference, of course. The joke carries on when he tells an Italian cop, Gracias instead of Grazie and the cop says De Nada. I laughed till the tears rolled down my cheeks but alas, some were tears of pain that there are no men of courage out there who will simply say No to Ms Jolie's further skewering of the public sensibility through her so-called acting skills.
I'm sure she knows the truth, too, since she has now taken to directing.

Dear H, a love letter

In the secret life I live, by which I don't mean I indulge in S&M, unless that stands for Smarties and Mars bars, I fall in love every so often. An enduring relationship has been with Horatio Caine of CSI Miami, because the world I've created, in the hushed interiors of my room, revolves around television, and books.
I was into H from the first; that sideways stance, the low voice, that baby face with the old eyes, the dark suit and the necessity of addressing everyone as Mr and Ma'am and Son. Well, others have gravitated to the same alluring forces that gather in H because the show has surpassed the original CSI, even though they have given H the worst one-liners ever to leave a beloved character's lips. Despite that, he has become the man all eyes turn to, a hero of heroes, so full of virtue that a man will commit a crime in the city H lives in because he knows Lt Caine will uncover the truth in what he has done, and justice will be served.
In the end, that is the reason for CSI Miami's ridiculous popularity. At a time when media personalities have revealed the venality of their famous personas in the most embarrassing revelations, I turn to Horatio to stand as a beacon for what is right. Lose that sense and you lose it all. You can be an editor in India today because you know the right people, or you can be a politician because you paid the right people, or you can run a business because you destroyed the right people (by which I mean all the wrong people, of course), but erase your soul and you erase the only thing you can take with you.
So when I'm promised a Horatious November on Fox Crime all I can say is here, Jim Morrison, are the feasts we were promised.

The pity of it all

In Hitch-22, which I just finished reading, Christopher Hitchens uses the title here to refer to the German-Jewish relationship. To me, considering his physical suffering at the moment, it refers to a personal journey no one should have to undertake. I can't really think of philosophy and existentialism and geo-politics when every page of this memoir is tainted with the author's mortality in such an ironic way, a way he no doubt appreciates better than his reader: Memoir as swan song. Nobody wants one so near the other.
I can't watch CH's interview with Anderson Cooper (who has had his own share of tragedy yet manages to enquire about CH's health in an awful monotone) because it is not pity I am moved to, it is rage. And I want to know why CH hasn't shaved his head, and looks instead as though he has seen death approaching and it has a capital D unlike the god in his indictment on religion. god is Not Great is more readable, by the way, than this almost dried-out dissertation on a life well-lived; it reads like a political treatise rather than a riveting understanding of a man widely reviled and admired; what an opportunity squandered when it is after all in his own words.
But of course, it reads. You get a first-hand understanding of Salman Rushdie, Martin Amis and Edward Said among others, (but the tone is awed, much like Oprah who remains star-struck even though she is a star herself), and you do get a fairly accurate, If Sahara-like, insight into the mind of their mutual, sorry, common friend, but it is laced with the pauses that hint of moist if not downright juicy bits being in the stuff left out. It is not the houses we wanted to know about, Hitch, it is "the spaces between the houses".
But still, nothing CH writes is without merit so it will be part of my library. If there only had been a god, I could have kept space for more of his work.

A singular genius

Tom Ford used to be a cautionary tale. The genius behind Gucci, he made the brand name so glamourous that to be clothed in his designs was to have a Monroe moment. (Talk about cautionary tales.) Anyway, after he was fired, he spoke in interviews about his interest in film. No one scoffed – outright. He went on to stay iconic, working with Estee Lauder to bring out Amber Dew, and a make-up palette that was clean, definitive and supremely sexy, like his womenswear. He then designed glasses that became like the Hermes Birkin, instantly recognisable and universally coveted. Then, he made A Single Man.
I remember seeing a movie, the name of which I've forgotten, where a young boy falls in love with a man and it was the first time I realised that homosexuality, unlike what society tries to din into our dim skulls, is neither unnatural nor wrong. It showed love, real love, between two people, and it was moving and sweet. With this movie, Ford does the same thing. Colin Firth, of course, was lucky enough to have found Ford because this is what he will be remembered for.
What a sad song for romance, though, and life. What stays in your mind for days is the deep connection between the lead couple, and the searing frames. Ford changes the colours from slightly grey to warm red to show emotion, or a spilled pot of black ink which travels to a man's mouth as though his life's blood, too, has turned. This kind of creativity in film-making has been noted for its invisibility until Ford came along.
There are two moments that are ineradicable as far as I'm concerned. One is when Jon Kortajarena appears on screen, all 6ft 2in of James Dean couture with the same kind of heart-stopping beauty. The other is when Colin approaches a sleeping Nicholas Hoult and does not enter the 'elderly gay man corrupting a young boy' scenario which is as much a cliche as a falsehood, and the kind of thing mediocre directors would have immediately latched on to as a, well, as a cautionay tale.
Ford was so smart not to go there. In fact, I think Ford is a genius, and Gucci should be thanked for firing him over artistic control (that's the thanks he got for taking a bankrupt company to the $10 billion mark!). Frida Giannini is great, no doubt, but she is not a genius. Ford got the opportunity to show us he is just that in more arenas than one.
PS. Another thing of beauty which I thank all the Gods for is Matthew Goode. Kortajarena is the sort of man you would enjoy watching in a love scene; with Goode, you want to be in the scene.

Gordon Ramsey couldn't escape this...

Gordon's great escape to India on Travel & Living is unexpected, as was to be expected, but he can be cringe-making even there. While I enjoyed seeing him attempt to run with the bulls, south India style, he lost marks in the next round. He committed the cardinal sin of chefs who sample cuisine they don't like - he spit out toddy in Kerala.
Now Malayalees are not unfamiliar with their egos, and the faces of the men who were a.serving and b. introducing said toddy were frozen, as was mine. Honestly, for a man whose life is food, a little discretion should be de rigueur. The last time my face froze was when Bobby Chin spat out durian in Malaysia if I recall correctly. Good manners can never be over-emphasised.

The day I met the Earl of Essex

It was one of those days when you woke up, turned your head to the open window and saw nothing but blue skies, heard only birdsong and thought to yourself, ‘Why bother’ before turning on your side and going back to sleep. Can there be anything more depressing than the elements caroling the wonder of the world when you’re beating yourself up wondering why you have such a dead-end job and what’s the matter with you and maybe your Dad was right when he said you would come to a bad end?
But you hauled yourself out of bed because you had an Interview. You know what that means, right? Speaking to someone who tells you everything their PR person crafted out for them after you’ve spent hours drafting clever questions that will tell the reader what a witty, learned individual you are….oh, and of course, reveal something about the person you are interviewing.
So you dressed in jeans and a striped business shirt but added a red leather belt to show that you weren’t to be taken completely for granted. You arrived on time and waited for 45 minutes for He Who Must Not Be Named to do the same. He was a writer who had just launched a mega-boring book but it was your job to pretend it was marginally interesting enough for some column inches. He came finally, sat down without looking at you and asked the waiter of the five-star hotel coffee shop to bring him an espresso – without looking at him either. Then he sighed and asked you to go ahead, as though you were the executioner and he was the Earl of Essex.
You began as you meant to go on, softly, feeling like you were bearding a lion in its den. Dared you ask what his “inspiration” was? No, so you asked the next best thing.
“How did you manage to flesh out the character so well?”
The thaw set in immediately as He began to tell you how he had used an infamous jailbird as yes, inspiration, since the man had taken one look at him and decided he had at long last met someone who understood the nature of the crime committed blahdeeblah.
Is He for real? you thought. The jailbird saw a meal ticket and an opportunity to extend his already saturated 15 minutes of fame, is what he saw.
“And I told him that even though he had committed heinous crimes, he had paid for them with all those years behind bars. Now was the time to tell his story with no holds barred.”
The story had been told until you felt your insides churn at the mere mention of the jailbird’s name, but no matter.
So tell me, He asked, after 30 minutes of plugging, “How long have you been a journalist?” Translation: “I bloody well hope they sent a senior moron to interview me.”
“Over 10 years,” you murmured. Translation: “More years than you’ve spent learning the alphabet so that you can bore readers to tears, boyo.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, before getting up. Translation: “Thank God that’s over. Now for my spa treatment.
“Absolutely,” you said. Translation: “Thank God that’s over. Now for my real interview with Katrina Kaif.”

Go Away, Mr Gibson

It’s not enough to have made Lethal Weapon and Braveheart or to have stopped us in our tracks with Mad Max in the beginning. No, In The Beginning it seems Mel Gibson said Let There be Light in the darkness cast by Jews and N**gers (apparently people still use words like this which I can't even write). The rumour mill has it that poor dear Mel has a drinking problem but the time has come and gone when we could blame all our ills on booze, drugs or our parents. There is only one verdict to be passed on the Mels of this word: Go Away.
And uh, no, we won’t be watching any of your movies either. One does, however, have a fleeting thought for Mr Gibson’s 9-month-old daughter, the 8th child in his Roman Catholic worldview. Imagine her legacy when she grows up.